A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (best short novels of all time txt) 📖

And more pressing than any such mysterious idea was the tangible horror of Ralph’s suggestion, too well borne out by the boy’s own unconscious account of the adventure.  It was too dreadful, too real a peril to be kept to herself, and she carried the story to her uncle on his return, but without speaking of the spectral warning.  Not only did she know that he would not attend to it, but the hint, heard for the first time, that Peregrine was supposed to have met with foul play, sealed her lips, just when she still was hoping against hope that Charles might be on the way home.  But that Ralph believed, and little Philip’s own account confirmed, that his cousin had incited the little heir to the slide that would have been fatal save for his fall, she told with detail, and entreated that the grandfather might be warned, and some means be found of ensuring the safety of her darling, the motherless child!

To her disappointment Dr. Woodford was not willing to take alarm.  He did not think so ill of Sedley as to believe him capable of such a secret act of murder, and he had no great faith in Ralph’s sagacity, besides that he thought his niece’s nerves too much strained by the long suspense to be able to judge fairly.  He thought it would be cruel to the grandparents, and unjust to Sedley, to make such a frightful suggestion without further grounds during their present state of anxiety, and as to the boy’s safety, which Anne pleaded with an uncontrollable passion of tears, he believed that it was provided for by watchfulness on the part of his two constant guardians, as well as himself, since, even supposing the shocking accusation to be true, Sedley would not involve himself in danger of suspicion, and it was already understood that he was not a fit companion for his little cousin to be trusted with.  Philip had already brought home words and asked questions that distressed his grandmother, and nobody was willing to leave him alone with the ex-lieutenant.  So again the poor maiden had to hold her peace under an added burthen of anxiety and many a prayer.

When the country was ringing with the tidings of Sir George Barclay’s conspiracy for the assassination of William III, it was impossible not to hope that Sedley’s boastful tongue might have brought him sufficiently under suspicion to be kept for a while under lock and key; but though he did not appear at Fareham, there was reason to suppose that he was as usual haunting the taverns and cockpits of Portsmouth.

No one went much abroad that winter.  Sir Philip, perhaps from anxiety and fretting, had a fit of the gout, and Anne kept herself and her charge within the garden or the street of the town.  In fact there was a good deal of danger on the roads.  The neighbourhood of the seaport was always lawless, and had become more so since Sir Philip had ceased to act as Justice of the Peace, and there were reports of highway robberies of an audacious kind, said to be perpetrated by a band calling themselves the Black Gang, under a leader known as Piers Pigwiggin, who were alleged to be half smuggler, half Jacobite, and to have their headquarters somewhere in the back of the Isle of Wight, in spite of the Governor, the terrible Salamander, Lord Cutts, who was, indeed, generally absent with the army.

“Heaven awards the vengeance due.”

COWPER.

The weary days had begun to lengthen before the door of the hall was flung open, and little Phil, forgetting his bow at the door, rushed in, “Here’s a big packet from foreign parts!  Harry had to pay ever so much for it.”

“I have wellnigh left off hoping,” sighed the poor mother.  “Tell me the worst at once.”

“No fear, my lady,” said her husband.  “Thank God!  ’Tis our son’s hand.”

There was the silence for a moment of intense relief, and then the little boy was called to cut the silk and break the seals.

Joy ineffable!  There were three letters—for Master Philip Archfield, for Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford, and for Sir Philip himself.  The old gentleman glanced over it, caught the words ‘better,’ and ‘coming home,’ then failed to read through tears of joy as before through tears of sorrow, and was fain to hand the sheet to his old friend to be read aloud, while little Philip, handling as a treasure the first letter he had ever received, though as yet he was unable to decipher it, stood between his grandfather’s knees listening as Dr. Woodford read—

DEAR AND HONOURED SIR—I must ask your pardon for leaving you without tidings so long, but while my recovery still hung in doubt I thought it would only distress you to hear of the fluctuations that I went through, and the pain to which the surgeons put me for a long time in vain.  Indeed frequently I had no power either to think or speak, until at last with much difficulty, and little knowledge or volition of my own, my inestimable friend Graham brought me to Vienna, where I have at length been relieved from my troublesome companion, and am enjoying the utmost care and kindness from my friend’s mother, a near kinswoman, as indeed he is himself, of the brave and lamented Viscount Dundee.  My wound is healing finally, as I hope, and though I have not yet left my bed, my friends assure me that I am on the way to full and complete recovery, for which I am more thankful to the Almighty than I could have been before I knew what suffering and illness meant.  As soon as I can ride again, which they tell me will be in a fortnight or three weeks, I mean to set forth on my way home.  I cannot describe to you how I am longing after the sight of you all, nor how home-sick I have become.  I never had time for it before, but I have lain for hours bringing all your faces before me, my father’s, and mother’s, my sister’s, and that of her whom I hope to call my own; and figuring to myself that of the little one.  I have thought much over my past life, and become sensible of much that was amiss, and while earnestly entreating your forgiveness, especially for having absented myself all these years, I hope to return so as to be more of a comfort than I was in the days of my rash and inconsiderate youth.  I am of course at present invalided, but I want to consult you, honoured sir, before deciding whether it be expedient for me to resign my commission.  How I thank and bless you for the permission you have given me, and the love you bear to my own heart’s joy, no words can tell.  It shall be the study of my life to be worthy of her and of you.—And so no more from your loving and dutiful son, CHARLES ARCHFIELD.

Having drunk in these words with her ears, Anne left Phil to have his note interpreted by his grandparents, and fled away to enjoy her own in her chamber, yet it was as short as could be and as sweet.

Mine own, mine own sweet Anne, sweetheart of good old days, your letter gave me strength to go through with it.  The doctors could not guess why I was so much better and smiled through all their torments.  These are our first, I hope our last letters, for I shall soon follow them home, and mine own darling will be mine.—Thine own, C. A.

She had but short time to dwell on it and kiss it, for little Philip was upon her, waving his letter, which he already knew by heart; and galloping all over the house to proclaim the good news to the old servants, who came crowding into the hall, trembling with joy, to ask if there were indeed tidings of Mr. Archfield’s return, whereupon the glad father caused his grandson to carry each a full glass of wine to drink to the health of the young master.

Anne had at first felt only the surpassing rapture of the restoration of Charles, but there ensued another delight in the security his recovery gave to the life of his son.  Sedley Archfield would not be likely to renew his attempt, and if only on that account the good news should be spread as widely as possible.  She was the first to suggest the relief it would be to Mr. Fellowes, who had never divested himself of the feeling that he ought to have divined his pupil’s intention.

Dr. Woodford offered to ride to Portchester with the news, and Sir Philip, in the gladness of his heart, proposed that Anne should go with him and see her friend.

Shall it be told how on the way Anne’s mind was assailed by feminine misgivings whether three and twenty could be as fair in her soldier’s eyes as seventeen had been?  Old maidenhood came earlier then than in these days, and Anne knew that she was looked upon as an old waiting-gentlewoman or governess by the belles of Winchester.  Her glass might tell her that her eyes were as softly brown, her hair as abundant, her cheek as clear and delicately moulded as ever, but there was no one to assure her that the early bloom had not passed away, and that she had not rather gained than lost in dignity of bearing and the stately poise of the head, which the jealous damsels called Court airs.  “And should he be disappointed, I shall see it in his eyes,” she said to herself, “and then his promise shall not bind him, though it will break my heart, and oh! how hard to resign my Phil to a strange stepmother.”  Still her heart was lighter than for many a long year, as she cantered along in the brisk March air, while the drops left by the departing frost glistened in the sunshine, and the sea lay stretched in a delicate gray haze.  The old castle rose before her in its familiar home-like massiveness as they turned towards the Rectory, where in that sheltered spot the well-known clusters of crocuses were opening their golden hearts to the sunshine, and recalling the days when Anne was as sunny-hearted as they, and she felt as if she could be as bright again.

In Mrs. Fellowes’s parlour they found an unexpected guest, no other than Mrs. Oakshott.

‘Gadding about’ not being the fashion of the Archfield household, Anne had not seen the lady for several years, and was agreeably surprised by her appearance.  Perhaps the marks of smallpox had faded, perhaps motherhood had given expression, and what had been gaunt ungainliness in the maiden had rounded into a certain importance in the matron, nor had her dress, though quiet, any of the Puritan rigid ugliness that had been complained of, and though certainly not beautiful, she was a person to inspire respect.

It was explained that she was waiting for her husband, who was gone with Mr. Fellowes to speak to the officer in command of the soldiers at the castle.  “For,” said she, “I am quite convinced that there is something that ought to be brought to light, and it may be in that vault.”

Anne’s heart gave such a throb as almost choked her.

Dr. Woodford asked what the lady meant.

“Well, sir, when spirits and things ’tis not well to talk of are starting up and about here, there, and everywhere, ’tis plain there must be cause for it.”

“I do not quite take your meaning, madam.”

“Ah, well! you gentlemen, reverend ones especially, are the last to hear such things.  There’s the poor old Major, he won’t believe a word of it, but you know, Mistress Woodford.  I see it in your face.  Have you seen anything?”

“Not here, not now,” faltered Anne.  “You have, Mrs. Fellowes?”

“I have heard of some foolish fright of the maids,” said Naomi, “partly their own fancy, or perhaps caught from the sentry.  There is no keeping those giddy girls from running after the soldiers.”

Perhaps Naomi hoped by throwing out this hint to conduct her visitors off into the safer topic of domestic delinquencies, but Mrs. Oakshott was far too earnest to be thus diverted, and she exclaimed, “Ah, they saw him, I’ll warrant!”

“Him?” the Doctor asked innocently.

“Him or his likeness,” said Mrs. Oakshott, “my poor brother-in-law, Peregrine Oakshott; you remember him, sir?  He always said, poor lad, that you and Mrs. Woodford were kinder to him than his own flesh and blood, except his uncle, Sir Peregrine.  For my part, I never did give in to all the nonsense folk talked about his being a changeling or at best a limb of Satan.  He had more spirit and sense than the rest of them, and they